


Be All Right

by SarahUndomiel



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Angst, Caring George Washington, Gen, Hurt Alexander Hamilton, Hurt/Comfort, I wrote this when I should have been working on something else, Major Character Injury, Not Beta Read, Pain, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-09
Updated: 2020-07-12
Packaged: 2021-03-05 05:21:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,678
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25169143
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SarahUndomiel/pseuds/SarahUndomiel
Summary: Set during Hamilton's time as Washington's aide-de-camp, but obviously not actually compliant with history.Hamilton's been shot.
Relationships: Alexander Hamilton & George Washington, Alexander Hamilton/Elizabeth "Eliza" Schuyler
Comments: 30
Kudos: 201





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not entirely certain where this came from. I'm supposed to be working on my My Hero Academia fic, but Hamilton on Disney+ has invaded my brain, and I literally could not focus on my other story until I got this one out of my head.  
> I love Hamilton's father/son relationship with Washington and in actual history we know that Washington really did refer to his aides as his family so at least that point is accurate. I never expected to find myself writing fanfiction about actual historical figures but here we are. I blame Lin-Manuel Miranda's brilliant emotional acting for this.

Where was he? What was happening?

He was burning, drowning, the pain surrounding him overwhelming his senses.

Pressure on his chest, his arms, his ankles, holding him down though he strained to get away from that all consuming pain, he had to get away from that pain!

 _Stop!_ Why wouldn’t they stop? _Oh, God in Heaven, please make the pain stop!_

A noise, raw burning in his throat, his own voice, he was screaming around the bit of leather jammed between his teeth.

Another sharper now searing flare of pain ripped through him. _What were they doing to him? What had happened?_

Tugging, tearing, was he going to have any entrails left by the time they were through with him? Something hard was jamming into him again! He had to be dying. No one could go through this and live! Why was he still alive? Why couldn’t he just seem to die? Why was he still awake? Blessed dreamless darkness would be so welcome right now, away from the shuddering agony behind his tight screwed eyelids.

Suddenly a reprieve, the pain was still there hovering, clawing at his very soul, but he could _breathe_!

A clink of something metal hitting a bowl and the pressure on his chest eased slightly. A calloused hand was cupping his face, rough fingers stroking through his sweat soaked hair.

“Hush.” A voice. Gentle. Soothing. “Just breathe, Alexander. Just breathe. You’re being so brave.” It’s Washington’s voice. “The doctor’s found the bullet. It’s almost over.” _Was there a crack in his voice?_

There’s something cool and wet running over his stomach. A rag wiping away his blood? It’s almost comforting until it gets too close again to the deep well of _hurt_ in his side. Something sharp and burning is being poured into him, and he can’t help the keening wail that forces itself once again from his throat. He appreciates the leather piece in his mouth or else he would surely have bitten through something else.

More soothing noises from his commander and another rag appears, this time apparently with the goal of wiping his face.

It’s all too much! His eyes blinked open. Blurry though they are, flooded with tears, he can just make out Washington’s face hovering over him. “Sir?” he mumbles around the roughness he’s holding in his jaws, hoping the question is clear.

“You’re going be all right, son. It’ll be over soon. The doctor just has to close the wound.”

Washington’s broad shoulders are blocking his view. He can’t see what the doctor is doing. That’s probably for the best.

The searing pain is back, tugging and stabbing into his side. Compared to before it’s almost gentle, but he’s so raw that even this little bit more is overwhelming. His eyes squeeze shut again, but this time it’s not a scream but a sob that makes its way from his mouth. He’s just so tired. Why can’t he just pass out? Let oblivion take him?

Rough hands on his face brushing away the tears. The tugging and stabbing finally stops leaving him with a deep throbbing ache instead. He can’t stop crying. Someone removes the leather from between his teeth. He’s being pulled upwards. The blood rushes in his ears. His breaths are coming too fast. Washington’s voice breaks through begging him to calm, assuring him that it’s over, but it’s too late. Maybe at last the darkness will find him after all…

*****

Washington sat holding the wrist of the pale boy in the bed before him, the position granting him the comfort of feeling the steady pulse continuing to beat beneath his fingers. When Alexander had suddenly gone limp as they raised him up so that the bandages could be wrapped around his middle, George had felt a sickening moment of fear that his young aide, the boy he loved like the son he’d never had, might have just died in his arms until he’d felt that fluttering beat, and the doctor assured him that the boy had finally, blessedly, swooned. “I’ve never seen a man with such a high tolerance for pain,” the doctor had clucked as he checked Alexander before going back to the work of binding his wound. “I’ve seen stronger men faint from the first cut, yet he stayed awake to the end.”

Washington held on to that assurance even as he propped Alexander up while clean, white, linen bandages were wrapped firmly to hide and brace the ugly wound. Hamilton was strong. He would pull through.

It was only by sheer horrible luck that that wound was in Alexander’s side and not his own, his aide having stepped in front of him at exactly the right, wrong, moment, and until his dying day he didn’t think he would ever be able to wipe the sound of Alex’s anguished screams from his memory as they had carried him into Washington’s own tent and held him down through the operation to remove the bullet. The doctor’s assistants would have done it. Washington didn’t have to stay, but he’d insisted.

They had moved Hamilton from the table to the bed. The boy had felt surprisingly light even for his already small frame. Washington could feel the ribs far too easily in his exposed chest. Like every other man in camp, he couldn’t possibly be eating enough.

The doctor had finished packing away his tools and came over to the bed. He pressed a hand to Hamilton’s forehead and then grasped the other wrist, timing the pulse with his pocket watch.

“Is he going to live?” Washington asked though he feared any other answer than the one he had already determined must be true.

The doctor sighed. “Only Providence knows for certain. By some miracle of Heaven the bullet doesn’t seem to have struck anything vital so it wasn’t immediately a mortal wound, but even the cleanest belly wounds almost always fester. If he can bear it, we’ll wash the wound with a bit of whisky whenever the bandages are changed. I’ve already done it once. I’ve heard of that slowing infection. Regardless he’s going to be very ill for a time, but if he can survive the blood sickness he should recover. You should send for his wife. He’s going to need constant care for a long while if he survives, and at the very least she should be given the chance to say goodbye if he doesn’t.”

Washington nodded somberly. “I’ll have one of the other aides draft a message to her right away. I’m going to sit with Hamilton a while.”

“He’ll hopefully sleep a good deal longer, but I’ll leave a bottle of laudanum here for him. When he wakes up you can mix a spoonful of it with a bit of water and give him small sips to dull the pain, make him more comfortable.”

“And if he’s hungry?”

“I don’t expect he will be. Something like this takes a lot out of a man. He’ll probably not feel up to keeping much of anything down for a while, but if you can get him to try anything, give him strengthening things like bone broths, teas, perhaps a bit of thin porridge if he’s willing. A bit of fruit would do him some good and likely tempt his appetite but there’s precious little of that to be found right now.”

The doctor took his leave shortly thereafter. It was already starting to grow dark outside, and he got up to light a couple of candles. Laurens came in to receive his orders regarding the letter to Eliza Hamilton, and Washington busied himself arranging a few papers on his desk and searching for his glasses a bit longer than strictly necessary to give the young man a private moment to speak to his sleeping friend before he was once again alone with Alexander. He pulled a stool over so that he could prop his feet up as he settled back into his chair at Hamilton’s bedside and opened his Bible on his lap to read, finding comfort in the familiar words of scripture. He didn’t plan on sleeping that night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've never written anything quite so emotional or stream of conscious style before so I'm a bit nervous about posting this. I haven't decided yet if this is just a one-shot or if I want to follow it up with a second part showing Hamilton's recovery. Please let me know what you think?


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my I never expected this thing to get such a positive response!  
> By popular request here is my humble attempt at a follow-up chapter. I hope it lives up to expectations.

He never wakes up alone.

Sometimes it’s Laurens or Lafayette sitting beside him talking about nonsense or propping him up pushing him to drink broth or tea. He likes those times because, even if he can’t bring himself to take much of what they offer, they always attempt to make him smile.

Sometimes it’s the doctor. He hates those times because they usually mean he’s going to hurt more for a while. He’s always given a small mouthful of laudanum before the doctor does anything, but it helps little when the doctor lances his wound to drain the infection and pours fiery whisky onto his raw flesh.

Most of the time, it’s Washington. The general has insisted that he not be moved from the tent and instead has had another bed brought in for himself. When he wakes in the middle of the night with the fever convincing him that he’s back in Nevis, Washington is there with steady assurances and cool compresses to bathe his forehead. After the doctor’s visits Washington is the one who sits beside him, a hand on his wrist, and reads aloud, the warm baritone voice providing an anchor as he processes through the pain. When he wakes in the mornings, Washington is the one who gives him his first dose of bitter medicine for the day, helping to keep the pain manageable so that he can rest more easily, and tries to coax him to eat a few bites of porridge sweetened with a bit of honey from the general’s own stores to tempt him to take a little bit more than he might have otherwise been willing to try. When he wakes throughout the day and is able to stay awake for longer than a few minutes at a stretch he lays quietly and watches as Washington works on papers at his desk or else he listens, eyes closed, to the noises of the other aides coming in and out quietly delivering messages and receiving orders, taking comfort in the muffled sounds of the camp running around him.

*****

The night had been a particularly bad one.

Pain had combined with a fragile stomach to create more pain, and as a result he’d been unable to sleep comfortably, alternating between fitful rests and lying in the dark, biting back whimpers determined not to wake Washington. His commanding officer had spent too much time taking care of him recently and if nothing else the worn out man deserved a full night’s sleep. Yet in the wee hours of the morning, he’d lost the battle to keep possession of the meager contents of his stomach. Exhausted, embarrassed, and unable to hold back any longer as his spasming muscles pulled at his wound, he’d wrapped his arms over his stomach in a desperate attempt to hold himself together while deep hiccuping sobs tore their way out of his chest.

In spite of his earlier determination, he couldn’t help but be overwhelmed with relief when firm hands grasped his shoulders and massaged along his arms, coaxing him to relax, blankets shifting, checking his bandages. There’s a tin cup at his lips, clear water to rinse his mouth. It’s followed by another cup, this time the taste of laudanum welcome in spite of the bitterness. “Thank you,” he whispers when it’s taken away.

“You should have woken me sooner.” Though Washington’s words are reproving they don’t hold any heat. Changing out his blankets for clean ones so that he won’t have to lay in his own sick however proves to be an awkward endeavor with him still lying in the bed and finally Washington had given up, instead scooping Alexander up into his arms to move him into the other bed. He was startled at first to be carried like a child but he was so tired and the medicine was starting to take effect and it was nice to be held so he didn’t protest. He dozed a bit while Washington had cleaned up the mess and at last fell back to sleep completely with the sound of the general’s quiet prayers humming in his ears.

*****

Slowly he comes back to consciousness.

After such a bad night he had expected to wake feeling just as horrible, and it’s true that his head is pounding and his side is pulsing, but this time walking up feels different though at first he can’t quite place why. He’s not lying flat anymore. His head is instead propped up on something warm that moves in time with his breath. As he becomes more aware of his surroundings he realizes that there are soft fingers tracing gently over his face, someone is humming, and he can smell… perfume?

He blinks his eyes open. “Eliza?”His beautiful wife is there beside him. She’s lying on the narrow bed with him, his left side so that there’s no risk of accidently pressing on the wound in his right, her arm wrapped around him so that his head is against her chest. The way her face lights up when she meets his eyes is the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. “Am I dreaming?”

Her quiet, unexpected laugh is gentle, delighted. He loves her laugh. “No, Alexander, my love.” She presses a kiss to his forehead. Her lips are soft against his still too warm skin. “You’re awake.”

“When?”

“…Did I get here?” She finishes the question for him. “Early this morning. The general sent a carriage for me. I was so very frightened when they told me that you’d been hurt.”

“I’ll be all right. I’m better already now that you’re here.”

She hums obviously finding that comment to be suspect but unwilling to contradict him. It’s true though. He hadn’t dared to think that she would be able to come to him, hadn’t realized how much he had missed her until now she was here holding him.

A knock on the tent pole. “Am I interrupting?” Alexander looked up as Washington enters the tent. He can see from the light pouring in the tent flap that it must be nearly midday.

Eliza sits up and smooths her skirt. _Yes._ “Not at all, Your Excellency. I must thank you for taking such good care of my husband.”

“It was my honor to do so, Madam. Your husband is an indispensable part of my command and a dear friend.” The general took her offered hand and bowed before turning his attention to his aide, “Hamilton.”

“Yes, sir?”

“I’m having another tent set up next to this one now that your wife is here. I imagine the two of you would like some privacy.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“We’re going to have to be moving camp in a couple of weeks. As soon you’re well enough to travel, I’d like to send you and your wife to Mount Vernon for you to finish your recovery. It’s closer than sending you home to New York, and Martha will welcome you.” Washington put up a hand with a warm knowing smile, heading off any complaint. “I know that you dislike being away from the action, but I need you to be well, son. Rest and heal, and I’ll be overjoyed to have you return to my side when your strength returns.”

If Alexander takes a moment to compose himself before answering he’ll blame it on his weak state of health, and If he jokes a little louder when Laurens and Lafayette come to carry his bed into the next tent, or holds Eliza’s hand a little tighter when she sits next to him that evening, well that’s just because he really is beginning to feel better, but in his own private thoughts he would admit to being overwhelmed by the wonder that someone with a background like his could be in a place of having people who would care for him so very much.

He was going to be all right.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Random historical medicine note - laudanum, which is still used today though now it's usually called tincture of opium, used to be made with "whole opium" rather than the more refined version now used and this resulted in nausea being a somewhat common side effect which could make things -interesting- when it's being used to treat a wound that could be made worse by the patient throwing up. It was definitely mean of me to give him that side effect but it was just too tempting an opportunity to pass up.
> 
> Let me know what you think?


End file.
